


A Handful of Hopeful Words

by Deisderium



Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2018 [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Steve Bingo, Happy Steve Bingo 2018, Letters, M/M, Miscommunication, Notes Left In Unusual Places, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, bad handwriting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 16:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16245296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium
Summary: Bucky keeps leaving Steve notes. Steve sure wishes he could read them.(The prompt is Letters)





	A Handful of Hopeful Words

Steve found the first note in his book, a biography of Alexander Hamilton that the musical everyone liked so much was based on. He'd marked his place with a grocery receipt; when he opened up his book to read, there was a note from Bucky, folded into a neat rectangle about the size of a credit card.

He unfolded it carefully. Bucky's handwriting was very different from the precise Palmer method script that Steve remembered from their schoolboy days. Bucky had showed Steve the notebooks he'd written while he was on the run. The handwriting was wildly variable: small and precise to large and scrawling, in multiple languages and alphabets. Steve's Russian was improving--Nat was helping and he was _highly_ motivated to learn--but he still had a difficult time with Cyrillic print, much less handwriting.

This note, thankfully, was in English. That didn't make it any easier to read. It started out all right.

_Dear Steve,_

_Remember Coney Island? I thought maybe after you get back from_

Steve squinted at the next line. Avenging? Atlanta? Alchemy? The writing grew to twice the size of the first line, and became infinitely scribblier. It was possible that Buck had switched to another language besides English, but it was equally likely that it was just that damn messy. Even his signature was completely illegible.

Bucky came in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel, while Steve was still struggling to decipher the mysteries of the note.

"Oh yeah," Bucky said. "Do you want to?"

"Do I want to what?" Steve asked helplessly. "Sorry, Buck, I can't read this." He hated to just say it like that, since Bucky could be sensitive about skills he'd lost, but today had been a good day, so Bucky just laughed.

"Let me take a look." He pulled the paper out of Steve's hand. His forehead wrinkled. "Well, I was definitely inviting you for a day out, but other than that, I don't really know what I was trying to say here."

"I'd love to go to Coney Island with you, pal. I'm just sorry to miss out on any pearls of wisdom you may have dropped in there." Steve reached out and delicately retrieved his note. Bucky hadn't written him that many before the war--there was hardly any need; they were in each other's pockets all the time--and this was the first one this century. It didn't matter whether he could read it; he was keeping it.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "You hanging on to my chicken scratch?"

Steve resolutely told himself not to blush, as if that had ever helped. "Yeah, champ. To cheer me up on a rainy day." This was closer to the truth than Steve wanted to admit, but he said it with as big of a shit-eating grin as he could muster so he would just sound like he was being an asshole.

"Hmmm," Bucky said, thoughtfully--historically, a tone of voice that hadn't boded well for Steve, but then he asked when Steve thought he might be free for Coney Island, and Steve thought that was the last of it.

*

The next note turned up almost before Steve stopped tasting the popcorn from Coney Island, taped to the milk in the refrigerator. Steve removed it very carefully. The condensation had smudged the ink in a couple of places.

 _Hey pal,_ it began.

_I had a great time with you this weekend. If you're not busy, how about we make another day of it soon? The Guggenheim's got a new exhibition in, a lot of that conceptual shit I know you enjoy nitpicking, but there's a good Impressionist gallery that_

That line ended in a damp smear. The next line had no such excuse. The writing didn't get bigger this time; it got more cramped, the letters smooshed together like Bucky was trying to write them all in the same space. Steve really wished he could read it _. I had a great time with you this weekend_ was already emblazoned across the inside of his eyelids, to be kept in the same place as the memory of the time Seamus Walsh had pushed him into the gutter in November of 1932, and Bucky had peeled himself out of his own shirt and coat, wrapped them around Steve's shivering torso, and walked him home wearing only his undershirt, pretending he wasn't cold.

Steve peeled a sticky note from the pad on the kitchen counter, picked up a sharpie, and wrote _I'm in. How about tomorrow?_ and carefully taped it to the milk.

*

"You can't tell me that's art, Steve. That's a fucking junk store doll with some shit glued to it."

"Come on, pal. Art doesn't have to be in the execution. They call it conceptual because of whatever the idea is behind it."

"Okay, fine. Tell me what the concept is."

"The card says it's supposed to be a critique of capitalism. Sounds like it ought to be right up your alley."

"You tell me how taking a glue gun to a toy says fuck all about capitalism."

"Can't say I really get it myself. Doesn't make it not art. Wanna go look at the Impressionists, Buck? Your eyelid is starting to twitch."

"Yeah, that sounds good. If I look at this too much longer, I'm going to want to pull it apart."

*

A couple of days after the Guggenheim, Steve found a piece of paper wrapped around his toothbrush and secured with a rubber band.

_Dear "Art" Apologist,_

_Thanks for coming with me to the museum. That was fun, even though you have terrible opinions about art for someone who's so good at drawing._

_Maybe next time we could go somewhere outside? I hear the East River park is a nice place for a picnic, even though what I really_

The next couple of lines were possibly Russian cursive, or maybe some kind of code, finished with a solitary, legible B on its own line. What exactly did Bucky really?

The museum had been a breath of fresh air for Steve, a welcome break from the constant weightiness of all his Avenging-related activities. They'd argued about the art all through the exhibits, and then Bucky had taken him to a Thai place where they'd continued to discuss over the food. Some tension had uncurled in Steve's chest at Bucky's eyes crinkling in a smile as he bullshitted him about art. The only way it could have been more perfect was if it had been an actual date instead of his friend just being nice to him, but they'd never had that kind of relationship in the past, and Steve sure as hell wasn't going to jeopardize Bucky's recovery by trying to change anything right now. He needed routine, stability, not confusion, possible upset, and Steve emoting apologetically at him.

Steve brushed his teeth. He grabbed a dry erase marker off the calendar in the kitchen then came back to the bathroom. He wrote in purple block letters across the mirror: LOVE TO. HOW DOES TOMORROW SOUND? I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING. This was not, strictly speaking, actual truth, but he could make it into truth. All he had were a couple of meetings. Nothing that couldn't be moved.

Steve held the paper to the mirror, his fingertips flattening the curl against the glass. Then he took it to his room and stuck it in the back of his sketchbook, with the others.

*

It was a bright, clear day, with just a couple of cotton-candy clouds drifting overhead. Bucky had set them up in a patch of grass looking toward the Brooklyn Bridge. He'd spread a quilt across the grass, brought an actual picnic basket, and, Steve was amused to see, both of their books. Steve was still working through _Alexander Hamilton_ and Bucky was reading something with a robed figure and a woman with a gun on the cover called _God's War_. 

"Sit yourself down," Bucky said, so Steve did as ordered, then flung himself down on his back to look at the blue, blue sky. Bucky was moving somewhere in the vicinity of his feet, pulling things out of the basket. Steve heard glasses clinking, a cork pop, foil being unwrapped from things, and the soft shuffle of fabric that was Bucky moving around on the blanket. Steve pushed his sneakers and his socks off his feet and spread his toes in the grass. 

"Are you adopting photosynthesis, or you think maybe you could eat something, too?" Bucky's voice sounded amused. His hand landed on Steve's leg, and Steve made himself not jump. It was his right hand--warm and callused fingers wrapped around Steve's ankle. He and Bucky had touched each other casually all the time in the twentieth century. At least, it had been casual for Bucky. They didn't really touch each other like that these days. Except Bucky just had. Steve shut his eyes and smiled at the clouds. 

"Seems a shame for you to bring food all this way if I'm just gonna be a plant. Yeah, I could eat." Steve made himself sit up. 

Bucky pulled his hand away, but only to pass Steve a plate piled with fried chicken, corn, and rolls. There was a bottle of cold white wine, and two actual glass, not plastic glasses. "Good looking spread, Buck," Steve said, and the corner of Bucky's mouth tilted up. He held up his glass for Steve to clink a silent toast. They mostly gave the food the attention it deserved, occasionally pointing out a few familiar buildings in the mostly-changed skyline across the river. A couple of times Steve caught Bucky watching him, and every time it made the usually-invisible crow's feet in the corners of Bucky's eyes smile themselves into existence. 

Then when they'd both stuffed themselves, Bucky pulled out cookies and passed Steve his book. Steve leaned back against the quilt, a few persistent blades of grass poking through the fabric. A second later he whuffed in surprise as Bucky laid his head on Steve's stomach and lifted up his own book. "This all right?" Bucky tilted his head so he could look Steve in the eyes. 

"Sure, Buck. I'm happy to be your pillow." Steve had to restrain himself from stroking a hand through Bucky's hair. "Make yourself comfortable." 

Bucky hummed a little noise and lifted his book. 

Steve picked up his own and prepared to try to concentrate when 98% of his focus--conservatively--was on the perhaps 6% of his body that was supporting Bucky's head. Instead of his bookmark, a folded paper fell out of his book, landing on his chest, above Bucky's head. 

"Really?" Steve said. 

"Yup," Bucky said. 

"I don't know how to tell you this, Buck, because I love getting notes from you, but I have a hard time reading 'em." 

Bucky twisted a little to look up at him again. Steve wondered if it was possible to frame the feeling of Bucky's head moving against his stomach and hang it on the wall where he could look at it whenever he liked. "Doesn't seem to stop you replying." 

"I usually get the gist, but I have a lot of questions." 

Bucky smiled. "Well, maybe you should take a look at this one." He picked up his book, seemingly completely focused on it. 

"All right." The note had fallen on Steve's chest, not far from Bucky's head. He chased after it, his fingers threading in Bucky's hair. Bucky made a noise as Steve untangled his fingers. Steve told himself not to misinterpret it. 

Steve laid his book open on the ground so he could devote both hands to unfolding the paper. This one was written in exquisite penmanship, all except the very last line.

_Hey Steve,_

_Seemed like this might be easier to write down than say out loud and fuck it up._

_I don't want to imply that you're fast or anything--I know you're not that kind of guy--but since this is our third date, you should know I'm wondering if it's okay to kiss you. I don't want to make any assumptions just because we already live together._

_Bucky_

_P.S.--_ and then, an illegible scrawl. 

Steve's heart was suddenly marching at double time. Bucky, with his head on Steve's torso, wouldn't need enhanced hearing to tell. Bucky stopped pretending to read his book and rolled over so he could look at Steve. Con: his head was no longer on Steve's belly. Pro: he was waiting to hear if Steve wanted to kiss him. 

"Yeah," Steve said, because he wasn't going to leave him waiting. "That would definitely be okay." The corners of Bucky's eyes crinkled up again. "So, these have been dates, huh?" 

 "Yep." Bucky pulled himself up so he was even with Steve, his chin resting on his crossed arms. "I'm pretty sure I said so when I asked you to come with me to the museum." 

"Half that note might not have been English." 

"Yeah, it was an accident the first time. After that, I've just been fucking with you." Bucky's smile turned a little shy. "Or kind of messing with myself, maybe. All the parts I was nervous about saying to your face, like that I wanted it to be a date. This way I kind of said it, but not really. Not so that you knew." 

Steve turned on his side so he was facing Bucky and laid his hand flat alongside his jaw. He could feel his face stretching with his smile, too wide, too goofy, but there was no way he could stop himself. He leaned forward and pulled Bucky to him so he could kiss him--chastely, because it was a public park with people all around them; but part of him was glad they were in public, now that it wouldn't get them arrested. He didn't care if the whole world knew how he felt. After a minute, he pulled back and rested his forehead against Bucky's, still smiling widely. 

"So what did the postscript say?" he asked.  

Bucky didn't usually blush the way Steve did (at the drop of a hat, and the shade of a ripe tomato), but his cheeks went faintly pink now. "I love you," he muttered. "That was gonna be true whether you wanted to kiss me or not." 

Steve punched him (gently) in the arm. "I can't believe you wrote that so I couldn't read it." And then, because he was not entirely an asshole: "I love you, too, pal." 

Bucky curled up next to him and tucked his head under Steve's chin. Steve breathed in the smell of his shampoo mixed with the crushed grass they were lying on. He couldn't remember anything smelling better. "Maybe next time I'll write it so you can read it," Bucky said. 

Steve tightened his arms around him. "Whatever you want, Buck. So long as you let me know."

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds song which is not AT ALL thematically appropriate for this level of fluff, but is a great song regardless (just much sadder!)
> 
> Other places Bucky leaves Steve notes: inside his cowl, sewn to the inside of his seatbelt on the quinjet, taped to the inside of his shoe, wrapped around the handlebar of his motorcycle, intricately folded around the doorknob of their apartment.


End file.
